


digits

by makokitten



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t want to have sex with her.  He doesn’t know if he could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	digits

* * *

        He doesn’t want to have sex with her.  He doesn’t know if he  _could_.  The thought of her fingers undoing the buttons on his trousers is mortifying to the point of nausea.  Sweet little Clara, you don’t want him inside of you.

         But he’s been around a millennium or so and he knows how human girls work, knows how to make them happy, even if it takes a second or two to get going.  He wants her happy, and that’s why, one of those days when he’s kissing her, his hand slips up her skirt.  He doesn’t even touch her skin, just runs his fingers in the right way, over the right place, just across the fabric of her underthings in a way that’s calculated to make her shiver.  She says, “Doctor,” and it might be an admonishment or it might be encouraging or it might be afraid, he can’t tell, but she doesn’t say  _no_  and she doesn’t pluck at his wrist so he does it again, a little more pressure, a little more firmly.  And she says it again: “ _Doc_ tor.”

         He listens that time to see if he can figure out what she means, if it’s stop or go, but whatever she’s trying to communicate eludes him again.  So he repeats, pressing against her but not into her with his fingers, but all he receives in return are ragged breaths and half-formed gasps.  And again, and again, and again.

* * *

         “That was something,” she says afterward, and her fingers skitter about, trying to fix her hair, tuck in loose strands, push in displaced pins.  Girls and their hair.  Must offer some sense of security, however small.  “I didn’t ask for that, but it was something.”

         “I’m sorry,” he begins.

         “No,” she says.

         He doesn’t know if she means that there’s no reason to be sorry or if she thinks he’s not sorry at all.  He says, “Okay.”

         Sometimes he gets carried away, Clara.  Sometimes he gets carried away.

* * *

         They’re picnicking at the edge of the universe—finally, an adventure that doesn’t somehow go awry.  When they’ve emptied the picnic basket and eaten their fill, they lie down on their backs to look up at the sky and watch the rest of existence sprawl out before them.  His hand finds Clara’s, four slim fingers and a thumb, knuckles and palm, blood pulsing through capillaries, bones and joints.

         He wishes he could be content with just a hand, and what a hand means when it squeezes back, without wanting the rest of her, too.


End file.
